


untitled

by matsinko



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), M/M, alternative universe, and this is so very ambiguous, oikawa is famous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 06:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matsinko/pseuds/matsinko
Summary: Iwaizumi is an agent who couldn't safe people when it mattered and lives with the guilt, and Oikawa is a rich heir who's empty as a vessel. They meet at functions.





	

You wonder why you even bother - coming to those receptions. You’re a fallen hero with guilt so thick it chokes you. You’re invisible among the familiar faces - no one talks to you, no one knows how to.

Turns out hurting doesn’t colour you blue, it leaves you colourless. There isn’t a reluctant intimacy between you and the people who know your story - there’s only acceptance with a pinch of denial and a whole lot of regret.

Yet they keep inviting you and you keep going.

You know when _he_ makes his appearance; people shuffle and move and form a half-circle, a communication around the front door.

You don’t even turn to confirm, the camera flashes and the tumult speak of themselves. You walk away briskly, move to the bar, order a glass of single malt whiskey and wait.

It’s 3 glasses later that you finally turn. It’s quiet, static; muted conversation, dull music and tipsy people talking about politics, laws and virtues. Your eyes easily find Oikawa Tooru in the crowd. He stands out like a jewel among dust.

He’s being talked to, surrounded as usual, but as always he’s coolly, uninterested, nodding away. You wonder what’s going on in his head while his eyes are glassed and cold like that, unfocused.

Then they lock with yours and you stop breathing.

There’s no softness in Oikawa’s eyes, they melt from honey to sepia-brown, liquid slate metal in the dips around the pupils, dark and cool and distant and you learn, you learn that brown isn’t always the warmest colour.

He looks at you and chills erupt under your skin, from your neck down along your spine. He’s porcelain, he’s ice, and one look is all it takes to feel the cold sweep into your veins.

(He’s the only one that doesn’t look at you like he pities you.)

It’s what you deserve.

He’s sharp edges; high cheekbones and long, lean limbs with his fitted suit and tight-pressed seams, squared shoulders and chin held high.

He’s like fine wine, elegant, refined and polished. Unattainable. He’s burgundy; the press of lips on crystal and you learn firsthand what it’s like to be jealous of the rim of a glass. You almost think his lips would leave marks. Half-moons of red, rich and coloured, burgundy.

They don’t.

The reception lulls and blurs and fades and it’s just him left — to you that is —  with his crown of taupe, soft around his face, at juxtaposition of everything else there is to him.

He approaches you, gait all confident, deliberate. No one follows, they know better than to do so. He moves like water; silent, deep, he’s blue. Like a mountain lake that’s just so inviting. Yet you dip your toes and it’s ice-cold. You want to swim, but you drown. It engulfs you. To the bone.

It’s what you want.

His nail slides down on the crystal of the glass, taps it there, at the bottom.

_Tap tap tap._

“I can read you like a book,” he says in cool, even words.

“I know,” you answer without hesitation.

“People would know,” he says and barely spares you a glance, “if you keep looking at me like that.”

“I don’t care.”

He clicks his tongue, takes a sip. It’s champagne. It always is at those receptions. You wonder why you even come when he’s indifferent, bitter like the bubbly liquid, spilling down his throat.

You swallow.

“You should look at yourself,” he says and his voice is low and honeyed, like velvet. “You want me.” His words are carefully measured, the intonation dripping down like liquid metal.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes.”

He’s like art, an expensive painting, lines so harsh, so vivid; intricate and poised to the last drop of paint on canvas. You want to reach, to understand. But you never knew art, never will.

You’re his little dirty secret. Substanceless.

He smiles, like he knows what you are thinking. It’s humourless. “Desperate.”

You’ll beg. He knows you will.

But he always gives you space, he never pushes. The blade touches your skin, but never breaks it. He gives you options.

You come back for more on your own. And that’s the truth there is to that.

He’s like water. Slips through fingers. But holds up a ship.

You’re going to learn to fucking cup your palms.

He tips his glass, takes the liquid in one go. “Let’s go.”

“People would see.” His own words against him. “Me leaving with you. It’s gonna make first page.”

“I always make first page,” he says. The little stretch of lips — his smile — it’s sharp and ruthless. He doesn’t care.

There it goes - the first slip of control. Like when his eyelashes glow in the morning light, filtering through your cream curtains, light, lighter than his hair and they flutter — like grass tops under the summer air — when he wakes up. He always looks so soft, so pliant, so human then.

Your toes curl in your shoes.

God, you want this.

He leaves the crystal glass at the bar and you know he’s decided. And who are you to disagree.

You follow.

(Back exit. Car. His apartment.)

His sheets are cool and crisp, a welcome touch against your heated skin, around it, and they smell like him — you’re drowning.

“You want me,” he breathes with voice so low, so husky, it sends you reeling. “Say it.”

“I do— I—” You swallow around the words that won’t come out as his fingers wrap around your cock. His touch is feeble, careful, almost too gentle for the crown of ice he carries, for the expectations, for the social pressure, all wrapped around him like a cloak, black and thick and heavy.

You’re the pariah and he’s the paragon; you break, but he puts you back together. His fingers trail down your chest, across your scars and wounds and cracks but he doesn’t heal, he watches. It’s enough.

It’s what you want.

His fingers disappear between his thighs and his lips part around a gasp. “Say it.”

“I need— I want you. Please,” you beg.

“Good,” he says and moves above you, so graceful he softens and morphs and you know how everyone wants him, hundreds and thousands and more, but you get him, you’re the one to see him like that. No one else.

You steady him while he sinks on his fingers and where your palms touch his skin is so warm. His gaze holds you down like you’re chained, cool and slate-brown, like burnt out fire — like ashes.

“God, you’re so—,” you groan.

“Shh,” he whispers, “I know. You need me around you,” he says. “Soon.”

His fingers are soft and cool and wet around your cock and you shudder. You’ll never be ready for him. He’s a prize you never deserved.

“Tell me.” He shifts and positions himself, his sticky fingers leaving a trace over your hips; it’s shiny.

“I’m going to fill you up so good, I’m going to— ”

“Yes,” he gasps as he sinks down, slowly, “yes.”

Your eyes roll at the back of your head. He’s so warm, so tight, so secure; he’s safe; inside him, you’re free. _And you’re fucked up_ , your brain provides. You groan, you’ve filled him up to the hilt. “ _God_.”

“I know,” he says as he rises up and sinks back down and it comes out in a shallow breath, a hitch. You want to hold him.

“You’re so good,” he rasps and his words are deep and heavy like forgiveness.

“No,” you say. “I’m—”

“Shh, let me show you—how good you are.” He’s fire. He’s ice and fire, all at once and he burns and cools and it hurts in all the right places not because you’re full of cracks and scars and stitches but because you’re letting go.

He’s safe.

“Oikawa,” you say and it comes like a sob. “Oikawa.”

“Yes, let me show you. You’re good enough.” His palms hold you down, but his gaze is heavier, it doesn’t weaver. “Say it.”

He holds your stings like you’re a puppet, and you give, give, _give_ , because you don’t know how not to. He carves you out and fills you with himself.

You didn’t know he had substance. He claims he’s only outlines.

“Oikawa,” you say, voice raw.

“Say it.”

“God.”

“Say it.” He rocks above slowly, so painfully deliberate, it’s anguish. Your fingers dig in the flesh of his hips, bruising. You think of marking him. You want them to know.

_Let them know._

But that’s something you’ll never beg for.

“Say it,” he repeats and stills, wrapped around you, stretched and warm and wet.

“Jesus,” you groan. You’ll do anything. “I’m good enough.”

“Yes, yes,” he whispers and you wonder how he keeps his voice so level, “that’s it.” How he’s in control, all the time.

 _Not in the mornings_ , you remind yourself, in the mornings he’s soft like cotton, warm and malleable, and he opens up for you, lets you taste the sleep on his skin, lets you—

“ _Focus_ ,” he says and your thoughts waver. “Focus on me.” He comes down on you and makes a sound. “Fill me up.”  

“Jesus,” you say and your fingers grip tighter. You help him move, as he lifts, then comes back down. You want it — harder. “Oikawa.”

“Give it to me,” he says, “just like that,” and he rocks above you, faster.

“I’m gonna fill you up so good, you’re gonna forget your name,” you say around a moan, a hiss through gritted teeth. He fits you so well, like a glove, like you’re home. Maybe that’s what forgiveness feels like, a slow drag of hot flesh around you and his cool brown eyes boring into you, unyielding, strong.

“Fuck,” he says, withers. “Fuck I’m—”

“No one,” you supply, “ _mine_.”

“God. Yes.” He shudders, hard, his fingers sleek, nails digging into the skin of your chest. And you know that — you know how he shakes when he’s close. You wrap a palm around his cock, stroking. You won’t last any longer either.

It’s erratic, messy, you arch underneath him like a bow while he comes down on you in short, desperate moves. He fucks like it’s the last time and you do it like you never want it to end.

“Oikawa, Oikawa,” you manage. You’re sweaty, and hot, and everything it so tight, your chest is so tight. You’re coming before you know it, inside him—inside him, where it’s safe. He follows, shudders and you scramble for his hands, hold them through it.

It takes you a long time to come down from your orgasm.

And when you do, you’re not sure, whether you came apart.

Or came together.

**Author's Note:**

> this wasn't supposed to be porn and yet here i am
> 
> ([my tumblr](http://matsinko.tumblr.com))


End file.
